“Stop talking.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

A second later, she brushed his cheeks with her palms, a light, petting touch. “You’re scratchy.”

“Should I shave?”

A tiny frisson shimmered through her senses. She shook her head.

“I’ll be careful, then,” he whispered.

And they both remembered how he’d always shaved twice a day for her and why.

She drew him near, her hands warm, her breath delicate against his mouth and it took every shred of willpower he possessed to keep from pulling her into his arms. He waited for her lips to touch his, feeling as though a decade had rolled away and he was waiting, with bated breath like this, for Caro’s first kiss.

Finally, her mouth grazed his in a velvety caress, the tiny flecks of gold in the green of her eyes so close he could count them. “Do you remember our first time?” he whispered, feeling as though he were going to burst.

Her heart lurched and letting her hands fall, she eased back as though putting distance between now and then.

Leaning over, his hands at his sides, he kissed her gently like he had that night because she’d been trembling then too. “It was my eighteenth birthday,” he said, sitting upright again, not wishing to frighten her.

“It was stormy like this.” Her voice was barely audible, her hands clenched in her lap. Every detail of that night was etched in her memory.

“And our parents never got out of London because of the snow.”

She smiled because he had and she’d gained control of her susceptible emotions. She wasn’t fifteen anymore; she’d learned how to guard her heart “The cook had made you a cake,” she said in a normal tone.

“But you were my best present”

You were the best everything, she wanted to say, but too many disappointments clouded their past “Thank you,” she said instead. “I regarded you as a wonderful present that night as well.”

“You weren’t wearing a nightgown though.” He touched the top button near her collar and then ran his fingertip down the row, hesitating at the last where the button lay on the swell of her breast.

She drew in a sharp breath, his touch inciting an answering tremor in the heated core of her belly, treacherously reminding her of all she’d missed since leaving England.

“Our coats were covered with snow.” His voice was rough but soft. “We’d just come in from the stables. Remember?”

She nodded her head and leaned into the slight pressure of his finger, wanting more, wanting everything he had, like she had that night so long ago.

The pad of his finger sank into her soft flesh, and she moaned, the imprint, however light, riveting to senses so long denied. Her body was aching with desire, opening of its own accord, immune to principle or caprice and after five long years and a night of wavering indecision, she could no longer wait.

“I want you now,” she said, because she wasn’t an innocent like she’d been that snowy night long ago and she wanted him for reasons that had nothing to do with romance. Or at least so she told herself. “Hurry,” she charged. “I don’t want to wait”

He generally took offense at females giving orders, but what he wanted was immune to scruple. She could insist on being master of the world and he wouldn’t have cared. “Yes, ma’am. Right away ma’am.”

But the difference between logic and male prerogative was evident in the brusqueness of his tone.

Her eyes widened for a moment.

“Actually, now is good,” he added in an altogether different tone, an obliging tone he’d perfected in countless boudoirs on countless occasions when he’d seen women look at him like that. He was deftly unbuttoning her gown, another competence acquired over the years in boudoirs. And a moment later, he murmured, “Lift up your arms.” When she did, and he’d tossed her nightgown aside, he thought-how could he have forgotten?

Her breasts were magnificent, opulent; she’d not changed while abroad… except perhaps- were her breasts larger? Her graceful pose with her hands crossed before her, her arms framing the mounded fullness of her breasts, called attention to them. Or perhaps the way she sat, almost as though she were presenting herself as some lush female ornament or plaything, emphasized their glory?

Suddenly gripped by a stabbing jealousy, he wondered how many men had gazed on her splendid, nude beauty? How often had she displayed herself with such natural grace?

“Hello there…” she whispered into the silence, and reaching out, she took Simon’s hand and placed it on her breast.

Her courtesan’s gesture did nothing to mitigate his resentments and mounting jealousy. He was about to say something rude when she guided his hand over the plump swell of her breast, the sensation exquisite, warm, his rough palm grazing her silken flesh, his erection particularly taking note. And he was instantly reminded of more important things.

She smiled, a familiar smile from his youth and he was able to relegate his umbrage to some lesser sphere, banish the last five years to some amorphous netherworld and smile back. “Sorry. You were in a hurry.”

She didn’t recognize such reticence; Simon had never been a man of reserve. “Let me,” she said, no longer a passive young girl and reserve or not, she was too heated to care. Leaning over, she pulled away the blanket covering his legs and paused, the quilt still gripped between her fingers. “You’re looking… spectacular,” she purred. “At least what I can see.”

He slipped out of his shorts with quick finesse.

Too quickly, she heatedly thought, knowing how familiar he was with occasions like this. But the allure of his rampant penis hard against his stomach curbed her displeasure. Dropping the quilt along with her qualms, she leaned back on her hands, and opened her thighs. “It’s been a long time,” she murmured.

His eyes narrowed. “I may not want to,” he said, surly and resentful, wondering whom she’d entertained with that artful pose before.

“Don’t be childish.” If she could overlook his life of excess, certainly he had no reason to take issue with hers. “It’s just a fuck,” she said, deliberately provocative, letting her thighs fall open, offering him a tantalizing glimpse of paradise.

“Bitch.”

“But fortunately for you, available right now,” she replied, silkily.

“I suppose I should count my blessings,” he murmured, his voice once again suave. Who better than he understood that sex was just sex.

“You should. I’ve learned a few things in five years.”

“I’m intrigued. Should I put in my order?”

“I expect you’re still well ahead of me in expertise. Why don’t you surprise me instead.”

Her voice was low, teasing, irritably coy, and five years of lurid possibilities flashed through his mind.

He knew what she was like in bed; she’d been one of the best. And apparently, she’d been gaining additional experience abroad. It shouldn’t matter, but it did.

She wanted a surprise. How convenient. Because he felt like giving her one.

A second later, she was flat on her back, her legs forced wide, his body braced above her-save for his erection that was nudging her throbbing labia. “Now then,” he said with a wolfish smile. “Why don’t you ask me politely?”

Her gaze beneath her half-lowered lashes was sultry, assured, confident in her allure. “I thought I was being polite.”

“Maybe the word I was looking for,” his voice lowered to a husky rasp, “was… submissive.” At the spark of temper in her eyes, he felt a perverse satisfaction. “No ready quip?”

“I’ve never been submissive,” she drawled. “You must be thinking of some other female.”

“I have a feeling you might change your mind.”

“Not likely.”

“But I want you to.” It was an ultimatum no matter the softness of his tone.

She glared at him. “Go fuck yourself.”

“Did Louvois teach you that?”

“Yes, and any number of other things,” she replied, oversweet and smiling. If you’re very nice to me, I might show you.“

If you’re very,“ his smile was cheeky, ”submissive, I might let you end your long celibacy.“

“I’m not begging, Simon.”

“Really.” With devilish finesse, he guided the taut, engorged crown of his penis up her sleek, pulsing labia, and then very slowly, down again, the answering flush rising on her cheeks gratifying evidence of her response. “You’re really wet, slippery wet… here-feel this.” He circled her lubricated flesh with the rock hard tip of his erection, and smiled faintly at her stifled gasp.

“If you’d like me to go deeper…” he murmured, teasingly penetrating a inch or so, “I’d be happy to accommodate you.”

The color on her cheeks had deepened, her thighs had gone rigid, and when he eased into the liquid heat of her vagina a fraction more, she shut her eyes and softly moaned.

“Would you like all of it?” He swung his hips in a supple, teasing motion, so every surface of her aching tissue felt the intoxicating friction and her panting changed to a plaintive whimper. “All you have to do is ask me nicely, and I’ll ram this big cock into your tight little cunt. Do you remember how you used to scream when you were crammed full of cock?” At the memory his erection surged higher, driving in a small distance more, forcing her throbbing flesh to further yield, bringing her already trembling orgasm to the veritable brink.

“Damn you,” she ground out, her voice barely audible, her palms pressed against the bed as though she could forcibly restrain the fevered tidal wave. But it had been too long and breathless with need, she couldn’t stem the coming flood. Regardless, he’d barely penetrated her, with a suffocated little cry, her climax broke… too quickly, prematurely, the cursory orgasm so frustratingly inadequate, she wanted to hit someone.

And conveniently…